


Covert Reality

by Somedrunkpirate



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, Sexual Tension, Tropes gallore, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-09 17:52:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11674134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate
Summary: In their business, trust is worth more than gold; it’s what pays the bills. The trust between the client and the hired gun is worth thousands as the client pays more to keep quiet than the kill itself.The trust between partners is worth exactly as much your life’s worth living, and Eames really likes to keep himself breathing as long as possible. The right partner for the job is a matter of life and death.So when Eames gets word of a job in Sydney, he knows exactly who to call.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Second extra for this Bingo, and probably the last one for a while. I have one other in progress but that one is going to take at least another month (probably more). So this is the last bingo fic for a while! It was super fun to participate :D 
> 
> The squares will be revealed at the end of the fic, although I'll say the Undercover trope is one of them ;).

Assassins, contract killers, or anyone who’s in the business of selling death as a commodity, are collectively imagined as lone wolves, hunting in the deep dark night upon their prey. They are seen as predators, albeit intelligent ones, who enjoy the kill but love their paycheck more.

The latter might be true, but the rest is such bullshit that Eames can’t watch any sort of tv show without coughing up a lung in hysterics. He would blame Hollywood, but Hollywood is to blame for so much that’s it’s honestly a waste of time to even start.

In reality, contract killers – or professional hitmen, as they prefer to call themselves – are often collaborators. Networking and co–working is a crucial part of the job; without it, you can’t become a successful killer. This is because killing people isn’t as easy as films make it out to be. Or rather, _killing people_ is. Killing people is so easy that many do it to themselves on accident. 600 people die by falling down the stairs every year, or something. He looked it up when he was drunk once.

To get back to the point: the killing isn’t the hard part.

The hard part is killing a mark in such a way you _and_ your client gets away with it. And for that you need to know the right people.

You need someone to protect your back, to guard you, to bounce ideas off. Eames has only completed six jobs entirely on his own. When he was young, naive, and a great bloody idiot. He got away clean then, but only just. He got lucky.

To make the situation even more complicated than only breaking the law: most hired kills are contracted by a person close within the mark’s social circles. This is one of the things that made Eames give up on the dream of love fairly quickly. Love is a farce, a quick lived thing that ends in Eames’ gun firing, and their life’s partners blood on the carpet.

(That the true decision to cut off love all together had followed closely after meeting the suited incarnation of Death, with his slicked back hair and hidden dimples, is something Eames entirely ignores. Compartmentalizing is something he’s very, very, good at.)

Despite believing love is a load of stinking horse–crap, Eames does put a lot of faith in trust.

In their business, trust is worth more than gold; it’s what pays the bills. The trust between the client and the hired gun is worth thousands as the client pays more to keep quiet than the kill itself.

The trust between partners is worth exactly as much your life’s worth living, and Eames really likes to keep himself breathing as long as possible. The right partner for the job is a matter of life and death.

So when Eames gets word of a job in Sydney, he knows exactly who to call.

“Hello, darling. I missed you,” Eames murmurs lovingly into the phone with a grin. He can imagine Arthur’s disgusted grimace from here.

“Why are you calling me, Eames,” Arthur snaps, a little out of breath. “I’m in the middle of a job. Be quick about it.”

“You know you make me go off fast, love, don’t worry,” Eames leers.

“Eames, please, get to the point.”

Eames mock–moans, because he’s really missed Arthur’s annoyance, teasing him like this. This job is going to be so much fun. “Begging already, darling?”

“Eames! I’m working! Get. To. The. Point,” Arthur hisses, sounding two seconds away from hanging up. But he doesn’t, because he enjoys this little dance too, somewhere deep in his professionally rotten heart.

“You aren’t on a job,” Eames tuts reproachfully, as if lying is something Arthur doesn’t do every other sentence.

“How would you know?”

“You picked up darling. Would you ever pick up the phone on a job?”

A shot rings out and Arthur curses, muffled through the static of his burner phone.

“Are you in a shooting range? Arthur, you know what that does to me,” Eames says.

Arthur snorts. “Yes, I’m in a shooting range to make you hard, specifically.”

Eames actually genuinely groans now, because he was prepared for snappish remarks, not flirty teases. He has a limit of what he can bear, and Arthur’s crossed it, and now he’s getting truly aroused.

“This is all very entertaining,” Arthur starts in the silence that fell. “But I have actual things to do. So, bye, Mr Eames.”

Fuck, he should’ve gotten to the point earlier. “No! wait,” Eames calls out. But his plea is cut off rudely by Arthur hanging up.

Eames toys with his phone, repressing the urge to throw it against a wall, for reasons. He’s normally better at this, getting Arthur to listen to him, to jostle him into their little cat and mouse game. There have been only few occasions where Arthur actively walked away from it, and all of those had to do with Eames’ – idiotic – genuine propositions. He’s learned his lesson from those rejections, and he got good at toeing the line.

His phone buzzes, and Eames looks at the screen to see he’s got a message from Death. Arthur’s been saved as this for as long as they’ve known each other. Sometimes the most obvious nickname, is the best one.

_If you did have a point, call me back in 4 hours._

Eames grins to himself. Maybe he hasn’t lost the magic after all. The job is a challenging one, but interesting in a way they’ve not seen in a long time, and with a paycheck that would woe the most stubborn of hitmen. Eames is sure that Arthur will be eager to join after he just listens for a second.

Eames tosses the phone on his desk and leans back in his chair, sneaking a hand under the band of his sweatpants. He hadn’t been lying– he’d missed that voice, those snarks, and their adrenaline infused conversations. So if he imagines them continuing the conversation with a more filthier direction, while palming his cock, there is nothing he can do about that.

––

Eames calls back in four hours, precisely. On the bloody dot. He isn’t punctual very often – according to Arthur he never is – so he thinks he can be proud of this accomplishment. Anything to make Arthur a little more willing.

“Darling, can I get to the point now?” Eames says as Arthur picks up.

“Yes, Eames, if you please,” Arthur sighs, annoyed, but also amused, secretly.

Eames represses the urge to make another begging related innuendo and launches into a rundown of what the client wants from them.

The mark – named Marc, which makes all of this unnecessarily complicated – is a 28 year old club owner in Sydney, who not only inherited a fortune of wealth, but also a well of information worth multiple fortunes. His father had been a blackmailer extraordinaire and it seems like the kid took over Daddy’s business. But he’s less experienced than his dear old dad, so a select few people now under his thumb decided to conspire together to get their information out of his hands and the mark neutralized. Marc isn’t that stupid as to leave himself without protection, so their client’s sources have put down two people as the safety triggers. Marc’s trustées have a copy of the information the clients wants destroyed, and like Marc, the trustées should be neutralised too.

“So, three kills and three information neutralisations,” Arthur sums up.

Eames nods, but then remembers that Arthur can’t see them. “Got it in one. The problem is that the clients don’t know who the trustées are. I thought an undercover op, because–”

Arthur interrupts him briskly. “Torture and kidnapping is too unreliable and too messy, especially with two follow up kills. No, I agree. What do you have in mind?”

“So, don’t bite me darling, or maybe you should, but the mark has a few clubs, most of which specialize as gay clubs. So I thought we should blend in and go as a couple, establish a relationship with the guy…” Eames lets the sentence trail off, because this is the tricky part. In normal circumstances, Arthur wouldn’t touch Eames with a six foot stick, never mind cuddling up like loving couple. But Eames has the feeling that this is the best way to get this guy and finish this job safely, and he has actual arguments to convince Arthur if necessary.

But Arthur just finishes his sentence with a thoughtful air, “...while being in a relationship, making the two of us a more non–threatening unit than two interested individuals. I see.”

“I thought I would have to fight you more on this,” Eames says honestly, smiling involuntarily at the ceiling of his hotelroom.

“You have good insights, on occasion,” Arthur confesses reluctantly, but Eames can hear the tease in his voice, and he ignores the little skip of his heart.

“Thank you darling. I’ve missed your condescension like a limb,” Eames drawls.

“You could’ve called earlier, I’ve got more than enough to spare,” Arthur says, like calling each other is a thing they do outside of business related conversations. Eames is fairly sure that this is in fact a joke, and not an invite to call more, despite how much of a beautifully bad idea that sounds to his ears.

So Eames clears his throat and changes the subject. “So, there is no set timetable on all of this, except the general vague ‘as soon as possible.’ When can you begin?”

If Arthur notices the abrupt change in conversation, he doesn’t say anything about it. “I can be in Sydney in two days. Confirm the deal with the client. We’ll hash out the cover when we’re there, your place?”

“My place,” Eames agrees, and tries not to be distracted by the idea of having Arthur there, pretending to be a couple with him. “I’ll see you soon, darling.”

He hangs up before he can say anything stupid.

––

Because he’s working with Arthur, the job starts before Arthur even arrives.

Arthur’s found an in through one of Marc’s friends, a DJ traveling from Hong–Kong to Sydney for a few gigs in Marc’s most high-end club – incidentally the one where he hangs out most evenings. In the magic way Arthur can turn the universe to his hand, he’s booked the seat next to the DJ, and is buttering him up to let them join a party that’s coming up.

Eames has been called in to greet him at the airport – as any self–respecting Serious Boyfriend would do – so they have to jump into their cover headfirst and blindy; no thorough conversation beforehand. The fact that Arthur is the one that proposed this very unplanned plan is still giving Eames whiplash.

“SAITO–Air, Hong–Kong Sydney, has just landed,” a cheery lady says through the airport intercoms. Eames drags himself to where Arthur will come in from his plane, having left his own not one hour before. Eames hopes that whatever story Arthur’s telling this DJ, it can account for the enormous jet–lag he has right about now. Eames sits down down in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs adjacent to Arthur’s exit. His phone dings, the new one he got for the job.

_Your name is Thomas. You’ve traveled here from Paris after an exhibition you helped manage. We’re in Sydney to enjoy a two month long break together._

_We are in love, in a relationship for over five years, and we’ve not seen each other in five months, so act like you’ve missed me. Act like you love me._

Eames swallows once, and then deletes the texts. He looks up just in time to see Arthur walking through the sliding doors, with his suit jacket over his arm and his laptop bag hoisted over his shoulder. He’s talking animatedly with a short Asian guy with dyed blue hair and painfully red jeans.

Eames stands up and, without needing to call out, Arthur’s gaze draws to him like he feels Eames standing there, and then he _smiles_ at Eames. Honest to God _beams_. A depth of dimples Eames didn’t even know existed on full force.

Eames swallows again, and drops his bag carelessly to the ground.

The next thing he knows is Arthur in his arms. Arthur’s hands are carding through his hair, and his bloody smile so painfully close that Eames forgets how to breathe for a second.

“Hey, you,” Arthur whispers against his lips, fondly, brightly, _lovingly._

Eames can’t think. His heart races, his hands tremble just a tiny bit when he places them on either side of Arthur’s jaw, caressing the dimples with a wave of wonder.

Arthur leans into the touch, and Eames can’t do anything other than kiss him softly, fearing that Arthur would step away if he takes it too far. But Arthur doesn’t. He presses in, pushes Eames’ head closer, and deepens the kiss. Eames forgets all concept of time and space and loses himself until someone beside them clears their throat.

It’s only then that Eames remembers they’re in an airport, a very public place, scandalizing everyone around them.

The DJ is standing a small distance away, looking at them with a slight blush and a smile. “Not to interrupt, but they just called for baggage. James, you had to pick up some right?”

Arthur pulls away first, but reluctantly; he stays close. His hand wrapped around Eames’ tightly.

“Sorry about that,” he says, not sounding sorry in the slightest, “it’s just been a long time.”

“I can see that, yeah,” the DJ says, smiling again. “I’m Sun. I made friends with your boyfriend here during the trip. He was good company, you’re lucky.”

“I know,” Eames replies, not trying to repress his smug smile, and he reaches over awkwardly to shake his hand; Arthur refusing to leave his spot by Eames’ side.

Arthur smiles up at him when Eames pulls back. “Sun, no need to wait up. We’ll join you in a second.”

“Sure,” Sun replies, reasonably sceptical, but leaves them for a moment of privacy.

Eames is close to stepping in and kissing that lovely smile off Arthur’s face, but the moment Sun turns around, he drops it, leaving only a satisfied look in it’s wake.

The same one Arthur has when he makes a headshot, a good kill.

“I’d say that went well,” Arthur says casually, stepping away. “He likes me. I got us an invite, and I’d say we’ve established our covers. Good work.”

Arthur nods at him, as though he’s making a sacrifice by giving Eames a compliment. Then he grabs Eames’ bag from the ground and tugs on his hand to follow Sun to the baggage claim.

And it’s that tug – all business, something Arthur would’ve done in a shootout – that makes Eames shake out of his revery.

Because all of this, all of _that,_ was a farce. That was Arthur _pretending_ to be in love, _pretending_ to be happy to see him, and doing a torturously amazing job at that.

It doesn’t mean anything that they’ve actually known each other for five years and have not seen each other for five months, just like their covers did.

The real Arthur does not care about him outside of a business–partner setting, working together to kill people for crying out loud. Sun could very well be one of those people. Its all fake.

Eames has to get his shit together, and never underestimate Arthur’s ability to act again.

––

The bass is pounding in his ears, a glass in his sweaty palm.

He’d decided to wear a loose top, but even that seems to be too much in the suffocating heat of the club. Eames nurses his cold coke, desperate for something to distract him from everything.

Normally he thrives on being overwhelmed in the club scene, loves it even. Loud music, bright flashing lights, a hot body pressed against him in some desperate reflection of dancing. But in this case, there is no alcohol to help him ride the wave of overstimulation – they decided that Eames would go sober and keep his wits about him – and it is Arthur’s long body draped over him, sucking bruises on his neck.

“Darling, would you like another drink?” Eames asks, having to yell into Arthur’s ear over the music.

“Fuck yes,” Arthur mouths, before pressing in and kissing him in a way that doesn’t help the overstimulation problem. So he pulls away, teases Arthur off him and stands up, repeating the question to the small group they joined.

Sun’s lying on the floor, exhausted after a two hour session, and yells for water and a JD, not necessarily in that order. Tim, a friend of Sun’s, shakes his head, motioning to his decidedly full martini. Eames finally rounds on Marc, who’s sitting on a love–seat like a king observing his castle, and doesn’t seem to have heard him.

Eames lowers his mouth to Marc’s ear. “Drink?”

Marc doesn’t look up, but nods. “Champagne.”

It’s the first word Marc has said to Eames, but the job has only just started. It’s a start.

Eames repeats their requests in his head as he presses through the masses on the dance floor, all making out in one way or another. Any other night, he would’ve joined them and lost himself in the thrum and drang. But now he’s stuck on this undercover gig that includes a wasted Arthur sucking hickeys on his neck. He never thought he would be complaining about that scenario, but here he is.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Eames had expected Arthur to be stiff and distant, paining himself to do the bare minimum for their cover. That he would have to coax it out of Arthur, picking away at his icy walls like he’s always done.

What he got is the opposite: Arthur is clingy, close, and so fucking beautiful. A temptation to many.

There is a side to him Eames never knew existed. Arthur has dropped his professional no–nonsense persona and melted into this... darling. Eames’ darling. It really seems like he’s enjoying himself, like he’s really here for Eames, writhing on him like they haven’t fucked in five months and he’s desperate to start the night. He plays it so fucking well that Eames contemplates ditching the job all together and running while he still can.

Because Eames can’t be effective like this, his heart dropping every time he remembers that Arthur doesn’t mean any of this. Hearing Arthur say “Thomas” like he’s the most important person in the world makes Eames irrationally jealous. He’s jealous of a cover for Christ’s sake. He’s fucking himself over for something that doesn’t exist, something that Arthur’s never meant to show him.

Eames thought he had it bad for Arthur, his Arthur: competence in a suit seasoned with a sarcastic snark or two.

But this version of Arthur – _a version that isn’t even real_ – dimples, hot breaths and shining eyes, is something Eames will never be able to forget.

Will always be longing for.

So Eames doesn’t walk out of the club and leave Arthur to his own devices. He reaches the bar and orders the drinks while not even flirting with the bartender. Because although this whole job is going to end in blood, heartbreak, and alcoholism, Eames will take everything he can get before that disaster unfolds. If those things involve Arthur kissing him like he means it, that will make the whole bloody thing worth it.

When he comes back, he finds Arthur wrapped around Marc. But he steps away smoothly when Eames joins them in the VIP area, snatching the champagne and his martini out of Eames’ hand with a smile.

Arthur settles back next to Marc, and Eames leaves him to it. Arthur seems to have a plan, one he did not tell Eames. Eames has experienced enough with Arthur to know that letting him run point is almost always the best option. So Eames throws a bottle of water at Sun, and sits in a sticky seat behind Arthur and Marc.

He’s unable to drag his eyes from them.

Arthur whispers something in Marc’s ear, and throws his head back and laughs. Eames can’t see what’s happening due to their loveseat blocking his sight, but they don’t seem to sit far apart, and Marc’s hand is on Arthur’s neck.

Eames wishes he was the one who could drink, that he could drown the churning bile he’s tasting in his mouth from looking at them. Arthur is not his, he’s never been, but James is.

James is his boyfriend, and Thomas is going to feel as frustrated and betrayed about it as he wants – which means Eames can too. To keep their cover.

Eames knocks back his coke before standing up, shrugging out of his tank top. Then he walks to the loveseat, and puts a warm hand on Arthur’s shoulder while leaning forward, putting his mouth to Arthur’s neck, wet and biting just like he did to Eames not long ago.

He feels Arthur gasp, and Marc pulls his hand away – message received.

“You want to dance, love?” Eames murmurs in Arthur’s ear, who stretches his neck to give Eames more access.

But Eames pulls back, waiting on a response.

Arthur turns around, his eyes darken at the sight of Eames’ naked chest, he’s staring at Eames’ tattoos as if he wants to trace them with his tongue.

Eames shivers. Arthur plays it well.

Arthur rises from the loveseat resolutely, smirking at Marc before he goes and Marc – the bloody bastard – hits Arthur’s arse as he leaves. It’s something Eames would get a bullet in his wrist for, in another life, but Arthur only laughs. He twists his hips seductively, before finally sliding into Eames’ arms.

“Dancing, sounds reasonable,” Arthur says, licking his bottom lip. Eames growls deep in his chest and pulls Arthur flush against him, hands tightening on his arse, and chases that tongue with his own.

Arthur pulls back way too soon because he’s a bloody bastard too, and ushers Eames to the dancefloor. Writhing bodies surround them quickly, but Eames can’t focus on anything other than Arthur pressed tight against him, his arms around his neck and hips swaying in his hands.

Arthur comes in even closer. Eames closes his eyes for a another kiss, but it doesn’t come. “He’s invited us for dinner tomorrow night,” Arthur yells over the music. “We can’t leave yet, that would be suspicious, but tonight’s objective is completed.”

Eames hums and nods and expects Arthur to slip away. Objective is completed, as he said, it’s time to adjust to the distance again. But Arthur stays, moving to the rhythm in earnest, letting himself go in the wave of the music in Eames’ hands. Eames isn’t going to be noble and not take advantage of this. Arthur giving himself some fun as a reward for a job well done. If Arthur doesn’t push him away, there is no way in hell Eames is going to leave this ethereal creature’s side tonight. Arthur smiles up at him, brightening the room more than any disco–light could, and Eames gives in and kisses him, because he still can now and because he can’t not.

Arthur kisses back, eagerly, and in this hell hole of unreality Eames’ isn’t going to question that. He lets himself enjoy Arthur’s body, Arthur’s smile, Arthur’s kisses, even though they’re not meant for him, for Eames.

They’re meant for Thomas.

––

By the time they get back, the sun has already started to kiss the horizon in hangover–inducing rays.

Eames drags a willing Arthur to his – their – apartment, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind that Arthur only would let himself be this vulnerable if there was something more behind it all.

But then, the moment Eames closes the door behind himself, Arthur straightens like he’s never had a drink. He shrugs out of his jacket in a practiced move, says, “I take the bed tonight,” and leaves for the bedroom.

Eames sighs and collapses into the sofa’s cushions, trying to drown in the scratchy fabric and forget everything that had happened, and will happen soon.

Except that dance; those bright smiles and hot pressed bodies riding on each other and the sound of thrumming bass. That adoration makes for a painfully real memory Eames’ never deserved but treasures anyway. Deep, deep. He’ll never forget about Arthur so lovely in his arms.

––

Arthur’s already awake, Eames knows.

Arthur’s already been awake for an ungodly amount of hours.

Eames chooses to stay put and wallow in his headache. A headache that shouldn’t exist in the first place because despite what his body seems to believe, he did not drink a drop of alcohol.

He might have a mighty jetlag, but that is no excuse to feel this ungodly amount of shite.

Arthur knows Eames’ been awake listening to him roam around in the kitchen because Arthur knows everything. He lets Eames sleep off his non–sleep because he’s a darling. A darling with a gun he’s cleaning right this second, it sounds like.

Eames drags himself out of bed because he doesn’t want to deprive himself of that sight.

And a sight it is. Arthur’s hair is still wet and curly from the shower. He’s wearing his glasses in order to inspect the inner workings of his trusty glock. He’s got tight pants and a white undershirt with rolled up sleeves, concentrating on his gun he lights by natural sunlight.

There is a steaming pile of waffles next to him, and without looking at Eames he pushes the plate towards him. “Breakfast.”

“Is this what domesticity has come to, darling?” Eames sighs with a smile. “No gun parts on the table. We’ve talked about this.”

Eames braces himself for a snappish reply, but Arthur only smiles and shakes his head. “Sorry, almost done.”

There is a click, and the gun –fully put together– disappears partly under Arthur’s waistband, covered with his shirt. He looks up with the same smile in place.

Eames sits down promptly and puts a whole waffle in his mouth to distract himself from whatever that was.

“You’re hungry,” Arthur remarks unnecessarily, and he _chuckles_.

Eames chooses to look away. It’s a good choice; his heartbeat slowly recedes to normal.

There is a silence – Eames doesn’t know if it’s uncomfortable or companionable because he doesn’t trust his own judgement – until Arthur drops a map on the table.

Eames looks up. Arthur isn’t smiling anymore.

“Tonight will have two purposes,” Arthur starts. “One, interrogation, we need to know who his trustée’s are. And two, we will get to know his living area, the layout, security, etcetera.”

“We’re invited to his house?” Eames asks, furrowing his brow.

Arthur nods distractedly while making notes in his moleskin. The map turned out to be a blueprint of Marc’s rather large penthouse. Eames can see a pool, a terrace, three bedrooms, an open plan space that spans the kitchen, diningroom and the livingroom. More windows than there are walls; the whole apartment screams visibility. There is almost no cover. It’s not a good place to kill a guy; you would be spotted from the moment you walked in and that’s without cameras and motion detectors.

There is something off about all this.

“Arthur, Marc is a guy that blackmails people. You remember that right?” Eames asks.

Arthur sighs and looks up. “Your point?”

“Why? Why would he invite two people he’s known for all but a day into his house? He must have some sense of the constant danger he’s in. Why does he trust us so suddenly?”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “You think I can’t convince him, so it’s a trap? That’s pretty pessimistic of you and an insult to my abilities.”

“I’m sure you can be most charming when you need to be, love. But I’m not talking about niceties, I’m talking about common sense. If I had a blackmail empire, I would invite new acquaintances to an expensive restaurant, not my own house. Are you sure this is even his real place?”

“It is. He invited us to his house for dinner. I got us in. Accept it. Now, can we talk tasks or what?”

There is a glint in Arthur’s eyes that make Eames shiver in a bad way. He knows more than he’s telling Eames, but trying to pry that out of him would be a waste of Eames’ energy.

So Eames kicks back and places his feet on the dinner table, leaning back in his chair as casually as he can muster. “Okay, darling. Who talks and who looks?”

Arthur narrows his eyes at him for a second, but then lets his hackles drop too.

“I talk. He likes me. You do recon, check the security measures. I suspect he’s keeping his data close, so there is a big chance we’ll need to back and pull a heist in his appartment. You are specialised in that area.”

Eames smiles without humor. “You’ll charm and I’ll thief. What a couple we make.”

Arthur looks away. “I’m going to run some errands. Make sure you’re ready by five.”

“Yes, dear. Don’t forget to put out the bins.”

––

They are eating snails.

Arthur is laughing at something Marc said, making a mock toast with his cocktail to France and their recipes, and Eames has just put a snail in his mouth.

“Escargot, Thomas. It’s a delicacy,” Arthur scolds when Eames winces at the taste, squeezing his arm in comfort.

“That just means snail in French, darling. Making it sound prettier doesn’t make it good,” Eames says.

Marc smiles between the two of them. He’s at the head of the table, cutting his _escargots_ in little pieces, which Eames is fairly sure isn’t the French way of eating the damn things.

Arthur is sitting to Marc’s left side, and dinner had been set for Eames to sit on his right. But Eames flat out refused and sat next to Arthur, smiling at the chef presenting them their food until she reset his plates.

Marc had watched the whole scene with a small smile on his face and Eames wanted to punch it off of him.

“You’ve been in Paris, Thomas. Didn’t your French acquaintances teach you to appreciate the local specialities?” Marc asks innocently, but the tone of his voice implies he’s talking about more than some bloody snails.

Eames opens his mouth to make a quick witted response but Arthur silences with a rub down his arm, twining their fingers together.

“Thomas has never been one for speciality foods, but he can cook some great dishes. I’m very lucky,” Arthur says.

“Oh, I would love to have a taste,” Marc says. He’s looking at Arthur while he’s saying it.

There is a small knife tucked into Eames’ boot. He can throw it just so that it’ll precisely hit the hand that’s slowly creeping towards Arthur’s right arm.

Arthur lets Eames’ hand go and avoids Marc’s approving glance.

He’s blushing. He’s fucking blushing.

Eames clears his throat. “Any plans for Paris yourself, Marc? After conquering Sydney you must have another city in mind. Who knows, snails could make good club food.”

Marc laughs. “Who knows indeed.” He shakes his head. “But no, in all seriousness, my work in Sydney is far from done, and after that my schedule is flexible. I could go wherever I want. With whoever I want.”

Arthur laughs. “I’m glad. We’ll stay in Sydney for some time off, and we had such a fun time in that club of yours. I’d hoped we could use you a few times for some more pleasurable evenings?”

There is no mistaking his flirtation beneath the words and Eames has to use all his professional practice not to drag Arthur out of there. It’s a job for fucks sake. Arthur isn’t his. He needs to control himself and not fuck this up.

Marc smiles like a shark smelling blood. “I would love to be of service.”

The rest of the dinner is much of the same. Arthur and Marc trading poorly hidden innuendos and Eames trying not to flip the table to the ground. The only thing grounding him is Arthur’s warm hand on his thigh or on his neck, which helps to remember why he is staying on this job. The longer this job last, the longer Eames has this. Even if it’s slipping away through his fingers as the seconds tick by.

––

When they get home, Eames keeps quiet. Internally, he’s boiling over with questions and the urge to push Arthur against the wall and make him his, but externally he keeps his cool. A shower is what he needs right now. 

Cold water washes a majority of the tension away. A shiver through his spine pushes him out of his jealousy. There are two problems on the table. Arthur knows something he’s not telling Eames, and Eames doesn’t know how much more he can take while being kept in the dark.

Arthur is sitting on the bed with a laptop on his lap, watching as Eames comes out of the shower with only a towel around his hips. Eames feels childish so he drops the towel and goes to dress while being very much aware Arthur is rolling his eyes at him. 

“I imagine you have questions?” Arthur asks disinterestedly.

“A few, darling,” Eames says, putting on some pants and searching his bag for a shirt.

“I put your shirts in the closet, Eames.”

Eames shakes his head, but goes and picks one out. “What do you know I don’t”

“Many things,” Arthur quips with a bloody smirk.

“Darling, please,” Eames says.

Arthur sighs. “Marc has an in I’m trying to make use of, and the less you know the better.”

“You know I don’t work like that,” Eames says frowning. “ _We_ don’t work like that.”

Arthur rolls his eyes but closes his laptop. “Okay then. Marc finds happy couples, chooses a target and seduces him or her. We are playing the couple; I’m trying to be his target.”

Eames takes a deep breath and contemplates this information. “For what, blackmail?” he finally asks. “That would implicate him too.”

“No, this is a hobby of his.”

There is a slightest hint of disgust in Arthur’s voice and for some reason it calms Eames down. “We’re the couple he wants to break up. You’ll cheat on me with him to get his trust?”

“No and yes. You saw how he was tonight. Every time I tried to get some intell, he twisted the question to avoid it. He’s not going to trust me with anything even while he is fucking me. I’m hoping to get more try to find the information there. He seems like someone who would keep it close. If it’s digital, I could trace the copies no problem, if it’s not we will have to continue our cover until we find out.”

Arthur sounds so reasonable, as if he’s been thinking this through and planning it for months. Eames can’t get over the image of Marc fucking Arthur into a mattress and is seeing red.

“And what? I play the oblivious boyfriend in the meantime?” Eames says, pathetically proud at himself for not snapping or yelling or anything else that would betray him.  

“Yes, pretty much,” Arthur says with a shrug.

That isn’t going to work. “No.”

“No, what?”

Eames shakes his head. “I play the jealous boyfriend. That makes it more exciting for him, stealing you right under my nose. You’ll be playing hard to get by proxy.”

Arthur frowns but seems to think it through. Eames hopes he didn’t just say too much, betray himself. Fuck. Arthur knows, what if he knows?

But Arthur only nods calmly. “Point. I agree. Certainly if we need more time to find the back–ups, wouldn’t want him to get bored of me. Some competition should work.”

“Bloody great,” Eames says.

Arthur ignores him and opens up his laptop again. He doesn’t say anything as Eames crawls into the bed next to him and lies down under the covers.

The coming days are going to be an exercise in self control, and Eames is going to enjoy having Arthur for himself as much has he can. If he doesn’t have any complaints, Eames is going to spend a night with Arthur in bed. If he stays. Eames hopes he stays.

Eames falls asleep with the sound Arthur typing on the background. He feels a hand raking through his hair just when he falls into unconsciousness, but that must be a dream. Arthur wouldn’t do that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning for attempted non-con here. It's not graphic at all and is stopped before it can get too far. It's not between Arthur and Eames. 
> 
> But to be sure, I put a more detailed description down in the notes so folks who want to know what to expect can read it no problem :)

Over next the week, Eames has to get used to flashing purple lights and the feeling of dark jealousy as Arthur plays his role all too well on their nightly club visits. Luckily, Eames can do his own and pull Arthur out of Marc’s reach at least once a night, pressing up to him in any possessive way he might want to. 

It’s what he’s allowed to do now.

Arthur rolls his eyes as Eames pushes him against the wall. “Enough, Eames, he gets the point.” But that doesn’t stop Arthur from kissing Eames anyway, and laughing as he struts away, back to Marc and his champagne.

It takes three days until Marc whisks Arthur away with an ill-conceived excuse to ‘talk business’ in the backroom. Sun informs him with a sympathetic drunken frown that the backroom is actually a small studio space Marc turned into an apartment to entertain guests. 

Eames nods, and heads for the bar. 

The next day, Eames wakes up to the sound of Arthur coming home. 

He pushes both the jealousy and the hangover away and asks, “You okay?” 

“Yeah, no bondage kinks, so I was good,” Arthur says. “I do need a fucking shower through.” 

“You sure?” Eames asks, because this is important. Personal feelings aside, with jobs like these safety comes first. 

Arthur walks a little closer and places a glass of water on the side table. Eames grumbles a thanks. 

“I’m sure, Eames,” Arthur says softly. “I’m good.” Then he walks away, off to shower. 

Eames stares at the ceiling, overrun with tired thoughts. Because Arthur meant it, he’s good with this, and Eames has to accept that, because he’s anything but. Arthur sees his body as another weapon, like a prized gun or a good knife. There are limits to what it can do, but it’s used for the mission, for the job. Eames has made use of his body too, of course, it kind of comes with their field, but the nonchalant way Arthur treats the sexual part of their jobs irks him. It always has. Arthur deserves more than a shag under pretenses of any kind, may they be lethal or purely sexual. Arthur’s body is one of wonders and deserves to be regarded as such, and Eames… Eames wants to–

The shower shuts off and Eames breathes, redirecting his mind elsewhere. Arthur has made progress on the job, maybe he got some information they can use, something to make this all go away quicker. 

Arthur walks in dressed for bed a few minutes later, looking nothing like he’s just had sex with a blackmail king. “He fell asleep right after, the idiot, so I had some time to search the backroom without any trouble. But as I thought, there was nothing there. I need to get into his apartment again, but I don’t know how long it will take until he lets me stay over.” 

Eames hums. “You’re not going to the club tomorrow.” 

Arthur slips in under the blankets, and Eames closes his eyes. 

“Why not?” Arthur asks, but doesn’t seem to argue Eames right away. 

“Because I’m the jealous boyfriend, not the oblivious one. I know what’s going on, and he knows that I know. So the logical next step is not letting him near you for a day or two, until he makes the next move to lure you in again.” 

“I agree,” Arthur responds after a second. “We’ll need to give him an opportunity to do so though, what do you suggest?” 

“Sun has a gig at a festival in two days. Marc will come, and you’ve made good enough friends with Sun to have a reason to be there.” 

It’s quiet for a little while, and Eames almost thinks Arthur’s gone to sleep. But then Arthur twists around to face him, a smile is only just visible in the morning light. 

“You have good ideas, sometimes,” Arthur says, and kisses him chastely. 

“Well, thank you so much, darling,” Eames says, as Arthur turns away again. 

Eames downs the glass of water and tries to make sense of Arthur’s behavior, but comes up with nothing, and goes to sleep. 

Arthur takes his rest during their two days break, lounging around in their apartment with fitted trousers and a open shirt. He makes use of the balcony at the back and spends the day reading in the sun, his feet in Eames’ lap. Eames draws or tries to pull Arthur in conversation, and he’s successful sometimes, gets him to put his book away and laugh, trade ridiculous clients and perilous circumstances. 

It’s certainly not the first time they’ve been stuck with each other during a pause in a job. Assassination is not as exciting as they say in the movies. There are days or weeks of waiting until the right opportunity, and times like these good company make or break the wasted time. 

For Eames, working with Arthur is always bittersweet, and now between all the jealousy and affection, Eames has to come to terms with the fact that compartmentalizing what he feels for Arthur doesn’t work all that well. He either has to choose between never working with Arthur again, or hoping honesty between criminals will set the record straight. Eames would’ve thought any kind of confession would end up with at least a few broken bones. 

Arthur appreciates his space, and Eames demanding more than a working relationship should have been a betrayal of the highest order. But maybe Eames was wrong about Arthur all this time. He’d at least never expected Arthur to be like this, this soft. There is no one to pretend for, but Arthur is here anyway, soaking up the sun and prodding his feet until Eames starts to massage them, at a loss for anything else to do. Arthur hums appreciatively at this, and he closes his eyes, smiling. 

Eames swallows, his stomach drops almost pleasantly. After this job he needs to tell him, and maybe – just maybe – Arthur will kiss him instead of run away. 

––

The festival is much of the same, only now there is more fresh air than there is in a club. Eames has only two hours to enjoy Arthur’s company before he’s expertly weaseled away by Marc. Eames spends the rest of the night hanging out with Sun. Angry jealous boyfriend isn’t going to run in the long term: he’s gotta be the one who knows, but also can’t bear to leave his cheating boyfriend. A few drinks in, Eames wonders if he’d leave Arthur if this was all real. If he has more self respect than Thomas seems to have, and break it off when Arthur cheats. 

He doesn’t know. 

The next day, Arthur comes back with a frown. He’s found nothing in Marc’s apartment, although he didn’t have much time to look. He’ll need another few tries. Eames just accepts the fact that it’s going to be hell. 

Eames doesn’t go to the club anymore, and Arthur is gone every night. He would break if off if it was real, Eames decides after night three. This hurts more than not having it. 

––

Things take a turn when Marc texts him on a Saturday morning. Arthur isn't home yet. 

_Dinner at my place, ten o'clock. Don’t tell your boyfriend. We have things to discuss._

Arthur comes home an hour later, and Eames tosses his phone at him. 

Arthur frowns down at it. “This doesn’t make sense.” 

“That’s what I thought,” Eames says. He tries not to notice the bite marks on Arthur’s neck but fails spectacularly. “Maybe he wants me to break things off?” 

Arthur passes his phone back. “I thought he’d want me to, as the last step in ‘conquering’ me. But I don’t know. Check it out, see what he does. Maybe you’ll have a chance to look around too. I’ve found _nothing_.“ 

“I’ll try,” Eames says. “You think I’ll need back up?” 

Arthur stares at him as if he’s insane. “Of course I’m going to back you up. I’ll be in the restaurant across from you, you’ll need to be bugged.”

“Well, you didn’t let me back you up,” Eames points out, remembering how Arthur had shook his head when he tried to follow him that first night. 

“That’s different,” Arthur says. “We don’t know what he wants.” 

“How is that different?” Eames asks, but Arthur’s already walking away. 

“I’m going to take a shower. We’ll prepare after lunch.” 

“Okay, darling.” Eames sighs. He looks at the text again. It’s definitely a change in their little pattern and, at the moment, Eames would give anything to burn that pattern to the ground. 

––

“I wanted to ask your advice regarding a certain topic,” Marc starts when his chef leaves the dinner table. 

Eames has no snails to work through this time, but is treated to a simple beef steak. It’s the only thing about this evening that could be considered a positive change. Marc himself only worsened, his gaze is smug and shrewd. He’s twirling the stem of his champagne glass as if he’s considering stapping it in half purely for dramatic effect. Eames would enjoy throwing his own glass in his face, but that would dampen any progress in figuring out what the hell Marc wants. 

“Or on two subjects, to be precise,” Marc continues when Eames doesn’t respond. “One of which might be a little distasteful during a dinner such as this, so I will start with the first.” 

Eames nods, and waits, drinking a sip of his champagne only when Marc does it first. 

“You mentioned it as a joke once, but I have thought about your proposal since then, and have decided that I’m interested in expanding my business to Paris. Although, I’m still not convinced that escargots would make successful club food.” 

Eames raises his eyebrow. Only his general anger about Marc’s entire existence prevents him from laughing out right. “You asked me here for business advice?” 

Marc smiles at him condescendingly, it’s not a good look on him. “You’re partly correct. The other topic will be breached after we finished dinner. So if you prefer that topic, you should start eating.” 

“You’re fucking my boyfriend,” Eames spits. He’s very aware of the knife placed next to his hand, and the bug hidden under his collar. 

“I can neither confirm nor deny at this time,” Marc says. “Eat.” 

Eames cuts a piece of his beef just when Marc does the same. He takes a bite and swallows. “And now?” 

“I’m afraid I’m fucking your boyfriend... If he still is that,” Marc responds. His tone more suitable for a comment on dreary weather than a confession of an affair. 

Eames trembles in anger and swallows another piece of beef, anything to distract him from this. It isn’t even real. 

“Why am I here?” Eames eventually asks. 

“We have much to discuss,” Marc responds. 

Eames wants to deny that, but something is wrong with the lights hanging overhead. They sparkle like stars, bringing a headache to light that hadn’t been there before. Marc is saying something else, but his voice is too low and elongated to make much sense. Eames’ ears thrum and pulse and he blinks rapidly despite himself. 

Something is very very wrong. 

Time slips.

Marc is hanging over him when he comes to. His shirt is gone, as is Eames’. Eames thinks he’s lying on a bed but doesn’t know how he got there. 

“You’ve been so patient, so good,” Marc murmurs in Eames’ ear. “You knew what was happening this whole time, didn’t you? But you stayed with him, because you love him, yes?”

Eames is dizzy and feels sick but this he knows. Arthur. Of course he loves Arthur. “Yes.”

Marc pulls back and smiles. “Of course you do. I see it in your eyes. But he betrayed you; do you want to know he did with me? Do you want to know the sounds he makes while I’m fucking him? I can show you, I have it right here on my phone.”

Eames tries to push Marc off of him but his arms are so heavy and he’s so tired. So when Marc wraps his hands around his wrists and pins them to the bed he goes willingly.

Marc rolls his hips against Eames’ and Eames moans despite himself. “Or maybe you already know how he sounds. You’ve imagined it so many times. Every time he went to dinner with me, you’ve been at home and hating yourself.”

Eames nods, because that’s true and it hurts. The lights hurt his eyes and Marc feels so wrong on top of him but he’s saying true things and Eames doesn’t know what to do.

Marc twists them around so Eames is leaning down over him. The bed is shaking and twisting in his head and Marc’s smile is too sharp. There are no dimples. He’s the shark and Eames tries to shake his head as Marc reaches up and kisses him but he’s too weak.

“You can fuck me instead, Thomas. Some sweet revenge, darling. You deserve a night of fun after so much hurt.”

Marc pulls him down again and starts to work on Eames’ belt with his other hand. Eames tries to remember why this is wrong, why there are distant voices in his head that say he should run. He should tell Marc to stop. But everything is muddy and slow and Marc is warm against him, insistent, and it would be so much easier to give up and let him do what he wants. Eames doesn’t know what he wants. He wishes Arthur was here. Arthur who cheats on him but Eames loves him still.

“Thomas. Get away from him,” someone familiar says from the other side of the room.

Marc pushes Eames off of him and reaches underneath a pillow. Eames twists and sees Arthur standing there. Beautiful Arthur with an expression of thunder and rage on his face.

Eames starts laughing. “You’re jealous now, darling?”

Something flickers in Arthur face and he grits his teeth. “Thomas, please.”

Eames laughs again but then the sickness in his stomach overwhelms him and he vomits over the edge of the bed.

“He drugged you. Get out of the way, Thomas.”

Something in Eames wakes up at that tone. That’s the tone Arthur takes when he’s three seconds away from pulling the trigger. So he turns and sure enough Arthur has stepped closer with a gun aimed forwards.

A second later, Eames feels something hard against his head. The barrel of a gun.

“Now, let’s be calm,” Marc drawls. “He wants this, don’t you Thomas? He wants this because you cheated on him, James.”

“Get the fuck away from him. If you hurt him… You’re going to wish you were dead.”

Eames shivers at Arthur’s voice. He knows Arthur means this.

Marc isn’t as intelligent as he seemed to be and laughs. “No need to get worked up, darling.”

Eames tenses and looks at Arthur in the corner of his eye. He’s livid. They make eye contact and Eames knows what to do. The haziness from the drugs parts just enough in the face of Arthur’s desperation and Eames twists Marc’s gun from his hand without stopping to think about it.

There is a bang. Someone yells.

Marc drops backward, clutching his leg.

Arthur rushes forward and takes Marc’s gun from Eames hands. “You’re okay? Tell me you’re okay.”

Arthur is cupping his jaw. Eames feels safe again. “Yeah,” he sighs and then blinks. “Dizzy though.”

Arthur’s face turns from worried to anger again in a split second. “That’s the drugs. He drugged you. Fuck. You’re going to be okay. Let me handle this.”

Arthur pulls Eames up and away from the bed and lowers him into a chair by the bed.

“Stay here, yeah?” Arthur murmurs, and then he kisses Eames’ forehead. Eames blames the drugs for the way his heart beats faster. He only remembers they’re still undercover when Arthur stalks back and aims his gun at Marc.

“Who are you?” Marc exclaims, pressing a blanket against the wound of his leg.

Arthur ignores him. “There is no blackmail is there?”

Marc stops and pales.

“You inherited nothing. You’ve been desperately searching for your father's database but everything died with him.” There is a sardonic smile in Arthur’s voice when he continues. “He didn’t trust you with it.”

Eames huffs a breath, as much of a chuckle he can manage right now. “It’s all a bluff?”

Marc is shaking, watching Arthur's gun. “It isn’t. I have it. I can release it. I have a friend. They will–“

The gun clicks and shoots. There is a hole in the wall a centimetre above Marc’s head. Marc chokes and tries to shuffle backwards.

“Shut the fuck up,” Arthur snaws, and Eames is suddenly very aware of how angry Arthur still is. Arthur isn’t like this. When they’re at the point of assassination, Arthur is calm, precise. Eames is the one who has to control his anger. Arthur’s never been like this. He’ll make mistakes like this.

“Darling,” Eames says. “What will we do with him now?” Maybe this will pull Arthur back on neutral ground. Practicalities.

“Well,” Arthur says. “I was planning to inform the clients and ask them.”

Eames nods; communication is important when the circumstances of a job change like this. 

“But then he dared to drug you. Put his filthy hands on you,” Arthur continues icily. “A bullet is more appropriate, don’t you think?” 

Eames blinks. These drugs are either very potent or Arthur just threatened to kill someone for Eames’ sake instead for the job.

Marc flickers his gaze between them, his breathing rapid in fear.

“Any objections?” Arthur asks.

Eames tries to think, but his mind is sluggish and tired and he wants nothing more than to go home.

Home. Safe. That’s important. “Can we get out of here no trouble?”

“Yes. Trust me.”

Eames feels so tired, but this he knows. “Of course I do, darling. I’ll always trust you.”

Eames’ eyes close. 

There is a gunshot, and then everything is dark. 

––

“Eames, you need to stay awake.” 

There is a cool hand on his jaw, dragging him away from the blackness. Everything is shaking. 

“Mister? You asked for water?” A light voice asks from somewhere far away. 

“Yes, thank you,” someone answers. No– Arthur answers. Arthur is here. 

“Is he all right?” The light voice asks, sounding concerned. 

“Yeah, he’s my partner. He’s a little sick. He’ll be fine.” 

Arthur sounds concerned too. 

“Be sure to ask if you need anything… Mister?” 

“James, and thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

Footsteps slowly recede. Heels?

“Eames, wake up for me please.”

Eames wants to say something, but his mouth is too heavy and doesn’t cooperate. Arthur shouldn’t call him Eames. It’ll break their cover. 

“Just open your eyes for me,” Arthur says. “I need to know you’re okay. I don’t know what he drugged you with.” 

That’s something Eames can do, slowly. He blinks. The light burns into his eyes but he keeps them open for Arthur. 

Arthur smiles a little. “Hey, there you are. We’re on a plane to Paris. We’re safe.” 

_Paris_. Is Arthur taking him to his home? 

Arthur’s hand is wrapped around his, the other is still on Eames’ jaw. 

“How are you?” Arthur asks. 

Eames closes his eyes, trying to gather energy to speak. 

“No, Eames. Please, stay with me,” Arthur says quickly, and starts to caress his jaw. 

Eames nods and focuses on that sensation. “I’m tired. Thirsty.” 

The hand on his jaw disappears, and Eames opens his eyes to see where it went. Arthur reaches over him and opens up a water bottle. 

Eames slowly takes it from him and drinks desperately. Immediately he feels a world of difference, the chill of the water pushes the slowness out of his mind. Eames sighs. 

“Better?” Arthur asks. 

Eames nods. “Loads, thank you darling.” 

Arthur takes his hand back and squeezes. “I’m glad.” His jaw twitches. “That one was too close.”

Eames tries a smile. “We’ve been in more perilous situations, haven’t we?” 

Arthur doesn’t respond, just stares out of the little plane window angrily. 

Eames carefully drags his thumb over Arthur's hand, and is almost surprised that Arthur doesn’t pull it away. 

“Hey, darling?” Eames waits until Arthur acknowledges him. Arthur turns to him after a second, expression guarded. 

“Thank you for saving me, love,” Eames starts, but Arthur interrupts him with a frown. 

“I don’t need a thank you for doing my job,” Arthur says. 

Eames hums. “You did more than that, darling. I’m thanking you for that.” 

Arthur looks away again. He doesn’t let go of Eames’ hand. 

Eames leans back and closes his eyes again, letting his exhaustion wash over him. He doesn’t want to sleep just yet, but watching the emotional enigma that is Arthur is a little too much for him right now. 

“Eames, don’t sleep,” Arthur says. 

“I’m not going to, and it’s Thomas, darling.” Eames sighs. “You don’t want to break our cover at the last second.” 

There is a pause. 

“We’re not undercover anymore.” 

Eames blinks in surprise, and sees Arthur watching him with a painfully blank expression. 

“What’s this then, darling?” Eames asks carefully, motioning to their entwined hands. 

Arthur takes a deep breath, but hold eye-contact. “This is me. Or it’s what we are to me.” 

Eames’s heart pounds. “Darling, what-” 

Arthur reaches over and interrupts him with a chaste kiss. He pulls back before Eames can react. 

“It’s never been fake for me, Eames,” Arthur says. “I’m sorry for taking advantage of our situation. I never should have.” 

There are too many thoughts in Eames head, but they all disappear when Arthur tries to tug his hand out of Eames’, murmuring “I’m sorry,” as he does. 

“No. Darling. Wait-” Eames says quickly, grabbing Arthur gently by the wrist. “I didn’t know. What are you telling me? Why are you telling me this?” 

Arthur looks from Eames’ face to their hands hesitantly and grimaces. “The way you were angry at Marc, during your _dinner_.” He spits the word, livid once again. “I thought it might be genuine. But you told him you loved me and that couldn’t be true.” 

Eames breath catches, but Arthur continues. “You’re a very good actor, Eames. I don’t know what was real or not.” 

Eames takes a deep breath. It’s time to be honest and deal with the consequences.“Everything was, darling. Everything was.” 

Arthur’s eyes widen. He opens his mouth presumably to say something but nothing comes out. He sags back into his seat. 

“This whole time?” Arthur finally asks. 

Eames grimaces and nods. 

Arthur clenches his jaw. “So I’ve been hurting you this whole time? With Marc. That jealousy was all real?” 

Eames nods again, and tries not to think about that feeling. But something must’ve shown in his face because Arthur squeezes their hands together again. 

“Fuck. I’m so sorry, Eames,” Arthur says softly. 

Eames heart aches. Arthur looks lost and angry at himself but there is an undercurrent of hope beneath all that, one Eames feels too.

“It’s okay, darling,” Eames says. “You didn’t know. I never told you.” He laughs. “I planned to tell you after, but I was afraid you’d run away screaming.” 

Arthur frowns. “Why would I?” 

“You never seemed to like me much, love. A guy might get the wrong idea.” 

Arthur shakes his head but he’s smiling. “I like you, I’ve done so for a long time. It’s damn inconvenient.” 

Eames reaches over and rakes his free hand through Arthur’s hair. “I hope I don’t offend you by saying I’m glad to be your inconvenience.” 

Arthur’s smile widens and his eyes are so bright and soft as he looks up and Eames _recognizes him_. This is the same Arthur that greeted him so happily at the airport. The same that teased him about gun parts on the kitchen table. The one that adored to dance with him and demanded foot massages in the sun. It was all real. _It’s all real._

Eames doesn’t know who closed the distance first, but suddenly they’re kissing. 

They’ve kissed so many times these past few weeks and it never failed to bring Eames to the ground. But this one is sweet without the bitter taste. This kiss feels like fireworks without the danger of burning, like a beginning without an end. 

Arthur kisses him gently, like he isn’t quite sure it’s real either, like he’s afraid to break the charm or destroy the dream. 

Eames pulls back and smiles without fear. He can’t betray himself anymore; Arthur knows and feels the same. 

“It’s real, darling,” Eames says. 

Arthur hums contently and nods. “It’s real.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Marc drugs Eames and tries to 'convince' him to have sex with him with some bodily force. But Arthur shows up the second he tries to undress Eames. And Arthur has a gun, and is Very Very Angry. 
> 
> \--
> 
> Thank you Brookebond and Guilty for your support through this thing! And many thanks for the people that commented and kudosed this thing before it was even finished, you guys made my week <3
> 
> The squares of this part were: Confessions and Competence

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Guilty and Brooke for reading and beta'ing! The second chapter of this should be up soon, I only have to finish the editing. Hope you liked it! 
> 
> Squares of this part were: PDA and Undercover.


End file.
